


Chicken Soup for Starsky's Soul

by Spencer5460



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s01e22 A Coffin for Starsky, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 15:23:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5095613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spencer5460/pseuds/Spencer5460
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fact that Hutch wasn’t sitting beside him now, his big hand warm on his arm, seemed all wrong.  Was being with him now so he wouldn’t die in some strange room alone too much to ask?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chicken Soup for Starsky's Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the LJ StarskyHutch911 Community Seasonal Prompt: Trick or Treat

Bellamy had his gun aimed straight at Hutch huddled behind the ventilation unit. Hutch couldn’t see him but Starsky could, just barely. Thank god Starsky had followed him up the stairs, as weak and ineffective as he was. But that was the way they worked. As a team. And that’s the way it would be until he took his last breath – which might be just a few hours from now. Through the blackness that was steadily enveloping him like the midnight tide, he squeezed out five shots and prayed they’d find their mark. 

Just before the darkness sweep over him completely he heard Hutch whisper, “What did you have to do that for?”

_Because I can’t watch you die. Because without you life wouldn’t be worth living._

Only what came out was, “It seemed like a good idea at the time” before he fell into Hutch like the ocean rushing in to fill up prints left in the sand. 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Starsky opened his eyes to find himself lying in a bed in a darkened room. His thoughts stuck together like globs of cotton candy. He knew it wasn’t his own room – the bed was too narrow and the blanket too thin. A nondescript still life hung on an otherwise bare wall directly in his line of sight. He assumed he was in a hospital room, but he couldn’t be sure. There was no one was around to ask. 

_No Hutch._

In yesterday’s early morning hours he’d been injected with a lethal drug after being paralyzed enough to know what was happening, yet helpless to prevent it. “You have 24 hours, pig.” The hateful words and malevolent laugh ricocheted through his head.

The poison had done its work efficiently in the hours that followed. It torched his insides while numbing his limbs, leaving him clinging to life and his partner. As hard as he and Hutch had fought the good fight, death now awaited him in shades of grey. 

Starsky thought he remembered his partner leaning over him telling him he had to go. For a few minutes he had floated peacefully in those fathomless blue eyes. Then they took him away and now he was alone. 

He had come close to death more than once - in the jungles of Vietnam and even on the streets of Bay City. Every now and then he’d imagine he and Hutch going out together in a blaze of glory. Living the kind of life that he did, it was a miracle he had survived this long. But now that death was near enough to touch, Starsky didn’t want a picture of fruit to be the last thing he saw.

The fact that Hutch wasn’t sitting beside him now, his big hand warm on his arm, seemed all wrong. He’d always been there for him before, whenever he’d been hurt, or sick or just wanted to talk. Was being with him now so he wouldn’t die in some strange room alone too much to ask?

“Hutch.” He drew a ragged breath across his lips. 

“Do you need something?” A voice materialized from the dark. Starsky tried to move but couldn’t and for a moment fear spiked through him like before. He thought perhaps his executioner was back, waiting with another needle to finish what the first had started. 

“I . . . I just. . . “ Starsky croaked out.

“I get it,” the man said. “These nurses push and prod you at the most inconvenient times, but when you really want them, they’re off on a coffee break somewhere.” 

From Starsky’s limited view he could just make out a man sitting in a chair to the right of his bed, shrouded in shadows. Although darkness obscured his face, Starsky got the impression he was much older. Not his masked assassin with the gruesome laugh.

“Name’s Ben Thompson. I’m in 305 – just across the hall.” The man’s voice was warm, as comforting as chicken soup. 

A taste of his ma’s chicken soup, thick with noodles, wouldn’t have made such a bad last meal. _Would Hutch have already called to tell her he was dying?_

“That’s alright,” Starsky sighed resignedly. “There’s nothing much they can do now, anyway.”

“Don’t be too sure. I’ve heard modern medicine can work wonders. They beat polio didn’t they?”

“Yeah.” Starsky felt his lips twitch. “But there’s no cure for what I got.”

He had made short work of his decision to save Hutch no matter the cost to himself. Knowing that Hutch was safe gave him a feeling of peace. Hutch had already moved on. It was time for him to accept his fate.

“I’m sorry about that, son.” 

The way the old man called him ‘son’ reminded Starsky of Captain Dobey. His eyes burned at the thought that he’d never see him again. Never steal French fries from the big man’s plate or hear him bellow Starsky’s name after reading one of his colorful reports. 

“We all gotta die sometime, right?” He swallowed hard. , _Life was an over-stuffed suitcase filled with memories not wanting to be left behind._ At least the pain that had earlier ripped through his gut like razors blades had dulled. If only the pain in his heart could do the same.

“That’s true,” the old man chuffed. “Hell, when you get to be my age you almost look forward to it.” His words weren’t said in bitterness, but with the humor of an eternal optimist. “On the other hand, you look a little young to be saying something like that.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe I’m just worn out.” 

“Son,” the man gently broke into his thoughts. “It might help you to talk about it. Looks like you aren’t going anywhere for a while. And I’ve waited a lifetime already. What’s a few minutes more?” 

“I don’t mean to be rude, mister - ”

“Ben.”

“Ben. It’s just that what’s done is done.” More than anything, the thought that Hutch must have given up on him made him want to give up on himself. 

“What do you mean by that?” The old man persisted.

Starsky didn’t normally spill gruesome details to civilians, but he might as well tell this man the truth. He had nothing left to lose. “I’m a cop, mister. And some psycho with an ax to grind decided to pump me full of some kind a poison that’s gonna kill me. The kicker is that no one knows how to cure me because no one knows what was in the hypo. So now I’m just gonna lay here and die.” 

“That’s a tough break, son.” Starsky sensed the old man lean forward, resting his forearms on his knees in a posture of concerned attention.

“Yeah.” _Ain’t that the understatement of the year._

“Me - it was the ticker that got to me. ‘Course, after Arlene passed on, I felt like I didn’t really need it anyway. What good is your heart when the one you love is gone?” Ben added softly.

 _“It’s always toughest on the ones left behind,”_ Hutch had said. He’d seen through his partner’s gallows humor like he’d always seen through Hutch. Who’d be there now to let him win at pool, raid his refrigerator or rag on his bad excuse for a car? Who’d be there watch his back? 

In these final hours who needed each other more? The razor blade sliced through him again. A hundred bricks crushed his chest, weighting the pieces together.

“Arlene. Was that your wife?” Starsky asked when he thought he could talk without breaking apart. He felt so stiff and cold that any slight crack might cause him to shatter completely. He’d like to die with some measure of dignity.

“We were quite a pair. Different as night and day. But we lasted fifty-five years.” Starsky could sense the man’s smile in the shadows. “Got so we could read each other’s minds. Finish each other’s sentences. You ever have anybody like that?”

“Yeah.” He answered softly.

“Is that who you were calling for? This ‘Hutch’?” 

“My partner.” The words were thick on his tongue. 

“You’re pretty close, aye?”

“You could say that.” Having Hutch for both a partner and friend made him the luckiest of men. Starsky never doubted it. Together they were unstoppable. Had been unstoppable, he corrected himself. The kryptonite of human failings had stripped him of his powers.

“What do you think he’d say if he thought you were just going to give up like this?”

“Seems to me I don’t have much of a choice.” 

“Are you sure?” 

Starsky was so tired, whether of the conversation or just the hanging on, he wasn’t sure. He’d been given 24 hours. Surely they were almost up by now. He was afraid if he closed his eyes, he’d never reopen them. 

_“I don’t care we’ve only got two minutes. We don’t give up.”_

Maybe he could hold on just a few minutes more.

“Look, Ben. I know I have no right to ask. But if you don’t mind, would you stay here with me for a while?” 

“Sure thing, son,” the man assured him in that soothing tone. _A golden broth, melt-in-your-mouth noodles._ The man seemed to lean back now, making himself comfortable in the stiff chair. “Sure thing.” 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Afternoon sunlight filtered through the blinds, throwing light on the clumsy lines of the still life. Even the frame was ugly. _It looked better in the dark._

“Hey, buddy.” He felt a squeeze on his arm, firm yet gentle enough to not disturb an IV needle that he didn’t remember being there before. “How ya feelin?”

Matted blond hair and weary blue eyes came into focus.

_Hutch._

The bricks that had been pressing on Starsky’s heart were suddenly lifted. His partner hadn’t left him to die alone after all. He was here in the flesh, sitting in the chair where Ben had been, only he had pulled it right next to the bed. Barely an arm’s-length away. 

Starsky took in Hutch’s haggard appearance. _Watching someone die is hard work._ Starsky cursed his weakness for wanting him here. “You look like hell, but maybe for once I might look worse.” His voice was a harsh whisper. He was grateful for the air that pulsed through a nasal cannula. 

Hutch’s grin transformed his drawn face. Shards of sunlight bursting through clouds. Starsky thought it was the most beautiful face he’d ever seen. “So much better than that damn picture,” he huskily pronounced.

“What’s that?” Hutch tipped his ear and leaned in close enough for Starsky to feel his warmth. He smelled slightly musky - the way he did after an all-night stake-out. 

“If I have to die, I’d rather you be the last thing I see.” Starsky made an effort to raise his voice, not caring how soapy he sounded. _Death keeps one honest._

“Well, I’m deeply flattered, buddy, but it looks like you won’t be dying after all.” 

Starsky let his partner’s words swirl in his head for a minute, not wanting to ask him to repeat them in case he misunderstood. But Hutch’s emotions – a particular mix of joy, relief, concern, exhaustion – were as clear to him as the billboard on Tenth Street. The one with the big red letters touting insurance. 

“Not . . . dying?” He asked hesitantly.

“No, not dying,” Hutch echoed back. “The docs figured out the antidote and apparently it’s working.” 

“I thought it couldn’t be done. What happened?” Starsky tried to sit up but failed. Not only was he connected to assorted medical equipment no one ever really knew the names of, the expression “weak as a kitten” also came to mind. 

“Well, after you shot Bellamy and I brought you back here, I realized the poison formula was too slick for that weasel to have come up with it by himself.” Hutch reached over to touch a button at the side of the bed. The head raised a few inches with a gentle hum. 

“So I went back to his girlfriend. She clued me in to who had really set up Bellamy.”

The plumping of a pillow, the back of Hutch’s hand brushing his cheek. Starsky scrunched his eyes shut. The relief that rushed through him threatened to leak out.

Hutch must have taken his reaction as his cue to leave. “But I’ll fill you in on all that later. Right now you should just rest.” 

Starsky heard him move to rise from the chair and his eyes flew open. “Don’t. . “

Hutch stopped mid-rise. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t leave just yet.”

Hutch ran a hand through Starsky’s dark, tangled mop. Kept it there. The need to hurry had past. Time was back on their side. When he sat down again, it was on the edge of the bed. The chair was miles away.

“I thought you’d left me here to die alone,” Starsky choked out. _Father Michael would be gratified to hear such a candid confession from a good Jewish boy._

“I’m sorry, Starsk. I didn’t have a choice. I had to find the antidote.” There was pain in Hutch’s smoky tenor. Starsky regretted putting in there.

“Ben told me not to give up. He said you wouldn’t either. I’m sorry I doubted you.” Starsky searched his partner’s eyes for any hint of disappointment. He found none. Just a perfect blue.

“It’s okay.” Hutch’s full lips curled into a teasing smile. “But you should’ve known I’d come through. Who else could I find who’s as easy to beat at pool?” 

Now Starsky was smiling, too. It felt good to know he hadn’t forgotten how. “Just wait’ll I get outta here, Hutchinson. I’ll mop the floor with ya.” 

A nurse announced herself with a tap on the door. “How are you feeling, Mr. Starsky?” 

“Much better now,” he responded. _No, maybe **that’s** the understatement of the year._

Hutch moved off the bed and stepped a few feet away to make room for the nurse, who gave her name as Gail. Neat and attractive well into middle age, she projected an enviable combination of efficiency and compassion as she went about her tasks. 

Starsky studied Gail’s face as she slipped a thermometer between his lips and was rewarded by a kind smile. He admired the woman’s apparent ability to maintain her sanity after so many years surrounded by pain and suffering and death. He only hoped he and Hutch were strong enough to do the same. 

“Who’s Ben?” Hutch asked when Gail removed the thermometer. She made a note on her clipboard then wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Starsky’s arm. 

“A guy from across the hall. He sat with me for a bit last night. Kept me company.” The squeezing pressure the cuff exerted reminded Starsky of the bully in fifth grade. But after the hours of numbness it felt good.

Hutch gave him a quizzical look. “Really?”

“Yeah. Nice old guy.” The cuff deflated like his aunt’s last soufflé. Another mark was added to the chart. 

“I hate to say this, but by the time I left here last night you weren’t in a position to be talking to anyone. You were pretty much out of it.”

“Maybe so, but I musta come up for air for a while after they stuck me in this room. Ben and I had a nice conversation.” Starsky turned to the nurse who had moved to adjust his IV. “I’d like to let him know I came through okay and tell him thanks.”

“Of course, Mr. Starsky.” Gail’s smile reached to her milk chocolate eyes, pleased with his vital signs and responsiveness. “What did you say his name was?”

“Ben Thompson. Room 305.” 

She paused then and the chocolate melted. “Mr. Thompson’s no longer with us, I’m afraid.”

“He got to go home, aye? That’s good.” 

“No . . . I mean, Mr. Thompson passed away yesterday.” 

Starsky felt like he had been spun by a Tilt-A-Whirl. His head ached from the side to side lurch. “But he was just here last night, I mean, early this morning. I know he said he had a bad heart, but he seemed fine to me.” Starsky’s voice cracked and Hutch stepped in to grasp his hand.

Gail looked at Starsky speculatively, then turned to Hutch. At his nod, she continued. “I’m sorry, but it couldn’t have been Mr. Thompson who was with you. He died just after midnight, a few hours before you were even admitted.” The smile that came to her face was now slightly forced. “You must have him confused with someone else.” 

“He said his name was Ben Thompson.” Starsky reiterated in frustration. He felt Hutch’s grip like an anchor. 

“Mr. Starsky,” Gail spoke gently, clearly used to dealing with the disoriented and confused. “Mr. Hutchinson is right. You were unconscious and unresponsive from the time you were admitted until just a short while ago.”

Starsky looked at the carefully controlled expressions of both the nurse and Hutch. He felt agitation simmer, like hot water in a kettle. “I didn’t make him up! He sat in the chair right there.” Starsky’s arm flopped weakly to indicate the chair. 

“He said he was from room 305 across the hall. His wife’s name was Arlene.” He focused in on Hutch as if searching for his own sanity. 

_“I don’t care we’ve only got two minutes. We don’t give up.”_

“He was here, Hutch. He told me not to give up.” 

“Sure, Starsk. I believe you.” His other hand pushed back the hair from Starsky’s forehead, no longer damp with perspiration, then sent a look to the nurse indicating he had things under control. 

“Dr. Franklin will be stopping by to check on you this afternoon.” Gail quietly gathered up her equipment, patting Starsky on the shoulder as she left. She wore professionalism over her face like a veil. 

“I thought you were told to go home, Hutchinson.” Captain Dobey thundered from the doorway. A welcome storm. In his beefy hands he squeezed bright flowers and a Tupperware container.

“I was just going, Cap’n.” Hutch rose once again, releasing Starsky’s hand reluctantly. “I wanted to check on the patient first.”

Captain Dobey gave a ‘humpft’ then looked to Starsky. The characteristic scowl softened. “How are you doing, son?”

“I was told I’d live.”

“That’s good. So tell your partner to go get some rest. He hasn’t slept in nearly two days. Thank god he never gave up. Even after the 24 hours were gone.” 

"What's that?" Starsky turned in time to see Hutch give Dobey a little shake of his head.

"Didn't he tell you? He didn't get the formula to the hospital until after the deadline Bellamy gave had passed. I guess somehow you both held on just long enough."

“Is that so?” Starsky looked at Hutch and smiled. 

“Well I said it, didn’t I? I can’t have both of you out of commission at the same time.” Dobey’d seen too much in his career. Bluster came easier now than any show of affection. It was a good thing they all understood.

“What’s that you brought?” Hutch asked, indicating the Tupperware in a change the subject. The awkward bouquet spoke for itself.

“Edith sent it over for Starsky. It’s chicken soup. She said she didn’t know what got into her. Hasn’t made homemade soup in years but insisted our boy here would want it.” He pulled opened the lid and waved the bowl in front of Starsky.

It smelled like heaven.


End file.
